


If You Can't Sleep At Night, Let Me Know

by astrangerfate, orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Spanking, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-23
Updated: 2008-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:45:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangerfate/pseuds/astrangerfate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean remembers, of course. The way sometimes Sam needs to just let it all go, tears and snot and emotional shit. There was a time when he knew Sammy inside and out, and he’s willing to bet that some things haven’t changed. Even if Sam doesn’t want to admit it, Dean understands his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Can't Sleep At Night, Let Me Know

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during Season One, post-Benders, though that's not particularly important, and consists of spanking and Wincest and everything that goes with it. Oh, and schmoop.
> 
> I own nothing, make no money, and mean no harm, and of all the fics I'm ashamed of ever writing, this is one of my favorites.

They wash the blood off, sure. Limp through the woods and down the highway until they reach the Impala and then the cheap hotel. Sam doesn’t offer any explanations, and Dean isn’t sure he wants them. But that night he lies awake in bed, listening to Sam tossing and turning, hearing the muffled sobs. Sam can tell he’s awake, but his little brother doesn’t turn on the light or ask for help, doesn’t cry the way he used to. The way he would have cried before he left for Stanford.

Dean remembers, of course. The way sometimes Sam needs to just let it all go, tears and snot and emotional shit. There was a time when he knew Sammy inside and out, and he’s willing to bet that some things haven’t changed. Even if Sam doesn’t want to admit it, Dean understands his brother.

Hell, he gets where the kid is coming from. He wanted to throw up when he saw those teeth, and the idea that people were out there doing… _that_ to other people…. Well, he wonders sometimes if it was really worth it, trying to save their sorry asses. But he can shake it off, at the end of the day. They’re deranged psychopaths, and in the end, what’s the difference between evil from hell and evil on earth? But Sam doesn’t see it that way.

So the next morning he stops Sam on the way to the shower, looks into his eyes. The kid has circles like he hasn’t had since Stanford, since Jessica. “You sleep okay?” Dean asks.

Sam nods tightly. “Just fine, Dean.” He pushes past Dean and into the bathroom, and Dean is left with the sound of running water.

Four years ago, Sam would have talked to him about it. He would have let it out, cried and let Dean listen. Dean can still imagine it. He’s got the memory of Sam’s head on his shoulder, can still feel the fingers wrapping themselves into his shirt, his own hands in Sam’s hair; the way Sam would fall asleep in his arms after a good cry. Remembers lying awake listening for Dad, in case he had to slip back into his own bed. They were closer then.

If Sam’s on top of his game, Dean won’t say anything. But the minute it starts interfering with the job, Sam knows what to expect. They’ve been through it before, with Jessica. And Dean isn’t about to let it get that bad again.

And so he doesn’t say anything that day, or the next night when Sam’s grief returns in slow, hopeless noises that subside into tossing and turning and the sound of a fist connecting with the wall. He distracts Sam the next day, trying to make him laugh, to get that look off his face. Dean knows that look; he’s seen it before. Sam doesn’t like that he can’t save everyone. He doesn’t like that for some reason he’s alive and someone else is dead. And Dean can understand that, too. And he knows what he would have done years ago, to get that look out of Sam’s eyes, to get him to sleep. But they haven’t touched, not really, since Sam came back. Every now and then when he claps Sam on the shoulder his hand will linger, or they’ll brush up against each other and not move. Sam’s not his to take care of anymore, Dean tells himself, even while every fiber of his being screams that _yes, yes he is._ And that’s the question, to Dean. If he didn’t jerk his hand away after a minute, what would Sam do? If he told the kid it wasn’t his fault, how would he make Sam believe him?

He worries about it that night, when he and Sam sit at the bar, drinking in silence. And before Sam even finishes his first beer he stands up, announces he’s going back to the motel. Dean’s first reaction is _oh, hell no,_ because they both know what happened the last time Sam went walking alone.

“I’m a big boy, Dean,” Sam says. “I’ll be careful, I promise.” And he leaves.

Dean’s dumbfounded, and a little pissed that Sam thinks he can walk off like that, ignore the way Dean’s heart starts pounding at the idea of something happening again. And the more he thinks about Sam’s words, the more he realizes they aren’t true. Sam’s not all grown up. He still needs someone to take care of him, and it doesn’t look like anyone else is volunteering. So he chugs the last of his drink, drops a ten and runs after Sam.

***

Sam is curled up on his bed in fetal position, doesn’t acknowledge Dean when he walks in. And Dean gets that Sam is upset, he really does. But it needs to stop, all of it, right now.

“Sam,” he calls, and his voice is harsher than he intends, but it seems to get Sam’s attention. The kid sits up, looks at him.

“Yeah, Dean?”

“You haven’t been sleeping.”

Sam shifts his weight, but shrugs defiantly. “Guess I haven’t been tired.”

Dean takes a deep breath and takes a seat on his own bed. “We’ve talked about this before, Sam. You need to take care of yourself.”

“I’m doing fine, Dean,” Sam protests, but Dean shakes his head.

“No, you’re not. And if you can’t take care of yourself, I’m just going to have to do it for you.” He pats his knee, waits for it to register in Sam’s mind. It takes a minute, because it’s been years, but then Sam gets it. Fear flickers across his face, but it’s quickly replaced by a laugh.

“Yeah, thanks, Dean, but I think I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Dean’s voice is blunt, because he’s right, dammit, and he’s not going to argue about it with the kid. It’s time Sammy had a little reminder of who’s in charge, and how things work around here. “Now you can get your ass over here, or I can drag you over my knee myself. You know I can do it, and if you make me, I’m going to use my belt.”

Sam’s voice is petulant. “Dean, I’m not a little kid anymore,” he begins, aggrieved. “You can’t just spank me like I’m fourteen years old. Besides, what the hell did I do?”

“You’re not taking care of yourself and you’re not telling me what’s wrong,” Dean says shortly. “You got a problem, then you tell me so I can help you work it out and get back on track. Because as long as you’re being pissy, I’ve got to deal with you, and any mistakes you make because you’re not sleeping or eating or trying to move forward. Now I’m going to start counting, and when I get to ten you’re not going to like it. One.”

He watches the color drain from Sam’s face. It’s been years since he spanked the kid, and longer since he’s counted, but Sam hasn’t forgotten the rules. If he doesn’t get over there, and fast, Dean’s going to tie his hands behind his back, and Dean’s always liked that more than Sam has.

“Two. And I want your pants down, too.”

The look on Sam’s face is priceless, mute horror mingled with disbelief. But if he thinks Dean’s not going to follow through, he’s dead wrong. Dean’s looking forward to it now.

“Three.” His voice takes on a note of warning, and Sam shoots a nervous glance at the door, but Dean shakes his head. “I’m waiting, Sammy.”

Sam rises to his feet and almost trips in the process, catching his balance at the last minute as he hastily unbuttons his jeans. Dean keeps counting as he watches the loose denim slide to the floor. “Four.”

Sam hesitates then, but Dean doesn’t beckon him forward, and Sam’s hands move reluctantly to his underwear. They slide down too, and Dean surveys his brother’s body appreciatively. The sight doesn’t deter him from his mission, even though he notices Sam’s getting hard, exposed in the cool air.

“Five.”

Sam stumbles forward, jeans bagging around his ankles, until he’s standing beside Dean’s knee. He’s blushing furiously, but he doesn’t speak as Dean guides him over his lap.

Dean doesn’t say anything either for a long moment, staring at his brother’s magnificent ass. All the memories come flooding back, stronger than ever. He ghosts a hand gently across the pale cheeks, and Sam shudders violently.

“You’re not a little boy anymore, Sammy,” he says softly, and suddenly the way he’s talking is exactly like they used to talk, before Sam went away. “But you’ve been acting like one. You’ve been naughty. You haven’t been taking care of yourself. And you need someone to look out for you, don’t you?”

Sam doesn’t answer, and for a moment Dean thinks he’s gotten it wrong, but then Sam’s voice comes, floating up almost too softly to hear.

“Yes,” he says, and Dean isn’t sure whether or not Sam is crying.

“Yes, what?” he asks.

“Yes, sir,” Sam says, and Dean is sure now that the thickness in the response is due to tears. Sam’s been alone, too, these past few months. But that’s all going to change. Sam hesitates for a moment, on the edge of saying something else, and then he whispers it. It’s not in the script, but it hangs in the air. “Thank you.”

“That’s alright, Sammy. It’s over now. I’m going to take care of you, and watch out for you. And punish you.”

Sam’s moan is part fear, part desire, and he squirms helplessly. Dean isn’t wrong about what he needs, what they both need.

“But for me to do that, you have to trust me. You have to talk to me. You have to let me know what’s bothering you. And that’s what the first part of your spanking is for.”

He’s calling it punishment, but it’s not. It’s therapy. So when he spanks Sam, it isn’t as fast and hard as it maybe should be. If he was punishing Sam, that is. His hand is landing solidly, alternating cheeks, traveling up and down every beautiful inch of Sam’s skin, tingeing it pink. It should produce a mild sting, but nothing too much just yet. It’ll build up, but this is more about the position than the pain. He can see the pink turning darker underneath his palm as he makes his way around Sam’s ass for the third time, and he stops spanking to rub, alleviate some of the sting, make sure they can both keep going. Sam makes a muted noise in the back of his throat that Dean ignores.

The skin is warm as he massages it, and he doesn’t really want to go back to spanking Sam, but they aren’t finished yet.

“If you tell me what’s wrong, we can work through it,” he says. “No more moping around, Sam. You talk to me if something’s wrong.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam replies, and Dean’s heart leaps at how _naturally_ the words fall from Sam’s lips, like he’s never stopped saying them. He’s perfect in this moment, ass on display, cheeks and fists clenching in anticipation.

“And now we have to talk about the sleeping,” Dean continues, taking his hands from Sam. Sam makes a disappointed little moan that makes him want to change his mind—at least, his downstairs brain is all for skipping to the end—but despite Sam’s efforts to prove otherwise, they aren’t ready yet. And if Dean starts something, he finishes it, be it a job, a beer or a spanking.

“You need to get some fucking sleep, Sam. We’ve had this problem before, and until you start taking care of yourself, I’m going to spank you every night so you’ll fall asleep. Starting with tonight.”

He spanks a little harder for this round, to show that Sam he’s serious, and the sound of slapping echoes in the small hotel room. The acoustics are bad, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the people in the next room can hear them, but so far no one has tried to interrupt them and he doesn’t really give a shit. The sharp smacks are joined by small whimpers from Sam as Dean concentrates a high proportion of the spanking on his upper thighs. The skin is hot to the touch now, and Dean can tell by the way Sam’s torso quivers that there are tears streaming down his cheeks, but he’s not stopping his brother. He’s not even trying.

When a note of pain enters into the whining, Dean stops spanking and starts rubbing again. He kneads the flesh under his hands, soothing away the biting sting until Sam’s backside is more warm and sensitive than painful.

“It’s true that it’s always easier to fall asleep after a spanking, isn’t it, Sammy?” he whispers into Sam’s ear, and he can tell how stiff both their cocks are when Sam responds in a meek agreement.

“So from now on, until you prove that you can take care of yourself, I’m going to have to take care of you,” Dean concludes.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Then we just need to finish up this spanking, and then I’ll put my naughty little boy to bed.”

Sam wiggles frantically at those words, trying to gain some friction against his dick, and Dean gives a low chuckle. He stops tracing his fingers over the spanked buttocks, slides them down to the crease where Sam’s reddened bottom meets his redder thighs, and pushes his legs apart gently. Sam groans and thrusts his hips into Dean’s lap. Dean smacks his inner thigh, hard.

“Not yet, Sammy,” he orders. “We’re not ready just yet.” He focuses the last of the spanking solely on Sam’s inner thighs, the most painful area…and the closest to the kid’s crotch. Sam is panting heavily, twitching convulsively, ready to explode the minute Dean touches him. Finally Dean stops spanking, with one last solid swat to the center of Sam’s bottom.

“Stand up.” Sam obeys instantly, and Dean stares at his brother’s cock for all of ten seconds before he reaches out and grabs it, jerking Sam off with a very practiced hand. Sam shuts his eyes and sags against Dean, tears streaming down his cheeks as he comes, sobbing Dean’s name.

Dean removes Sam’s jeans and underwear, lies the kid down in his bed as he strips quickly. Sam rolls over without being asked, and Dean’s never without lube. It takes him less than a minute to glop the cold lotion into his hands, prep Sam with his index finger, quickly follow that with a second and a third.

It’s been months, if not years since Sam’s done this, and that worries Dean for a minute, but either sex is like riding a bicycle or Sam is a natural, because he stretches open easily, and a minute later Dean is sliding his own erection into Sam’s red ass, amazed at how perfectly they fit after all this time.

“Dean….Dean…” Sam is panting, his voice breaking, and the sound of his own name coming from Sam’s lips pushes Dean over the edge. He comes quick and hard, gripping Sam’s hips and wondering what the hell took them so fucking long.

After they tire, Sam nestles against Dean, his hot bottom pressed against Dean’s thighs, Dean’s arms wrapped securely around him.

“Now you go to sleep,” Dean orders, and Sam smiles sleepily.

“Yes, sir,” he mumbles, and before too long his breathing is slow and steady. Dean falls asleep soon after, and they don’t wake up until the next morning. They don’t have nightmares; they don’t wake up worried something is wrong. Not while they’re in each other’s arms.


End file.
